seemed mystifiedwhen I brought it up. All her hair-twirling and leaning in close to share some little cop story was just Heather beingfriendly, as far as he was concerned. All the hot looks she gave him didn't register, nor did the North Pole stare she gave me.
Detective Heather was darling. She was slender and young, and had white-blond curls that framed her face. Even in her dark suit, it was obvious that she had curves. I was a little soft around the edges, with nice brown hair but no flowery word to describe the color. Still, Barry preferred me.
I thought it might have something to do with my cooking.You knew Detective Heather was a microwave- heater of store-made stuff, at best. I was all about cooking from scratch, slow-cooked roasts with scalloped potatoes, cakes with buttercream icing. Not that any of this was going to help me now.
'Don't worry. She'll just ask you what happened and let you go,' Barry said as he headed over to speak to her. Even at a distance I could see how her face lit up when he got close. It got worse as they were talking. Barry's back was to me, so I couldn't see his reaction, but she leaned in close and touched his arm. It was even worse than the hair twirling from before. Barry said something to her, and they both looked my way. He kept talking and she kept staring at me with a hard expression, as though she wasn't that happy with what he was saying.
I was getting more and more uncomfortable.
Finally she seemed to agree to something and turned back to face him. I couldn't believe what she did next. She flicked her hair back from her face in what had to be the most obvious flirt move in the book. As he turned to go, she touched his shoulder, and I groaned.
He glanced back at me and gave me a smile and a thumbs-up as he headed for his car.
Detective Heather took charge immediately. She sent Dinah off with her partner and then focused on me. I hoped she'd suggest we talk on one of the nice benches along the fence in the front yard, but she had other ideas. She led me to the backseat of one of the black-and-whites and gesturedfor me to get in.
'It's more private,' she said.
And a lot more embarrassing.
She waited until I was about to slide into the car to removethe handcuffs. 'The officer was within his rights, you know. His first duty was for his own safety and then to securethe scene. He can do whatever he has to, to anyone he sees as a threat.'
I had a hard time with the last part. On what planet did I look like a threat? And I didn't buy her privacy comment. If that was really what she was after, there was always her black Crown Victoria. Even though it never showed in her even expression, I knew she was enjoying my discomfort. She stood next to the open back door and took out a nice-lookingblack ballpoint pen and a black reporter's notebook.
Not only was it claustrophobic with that cage separating the front from the back, but the seat itself was some kind of indestructible plastic that gave me the willies. It seemed way too easy for her to merely shut the door and signal a cop to take me away.
She started by asking the correct spelling of my name, as if there were many ways to spell Molly Pink.
'Aren't you supposed to read me my rights?' I asked warily.
She stopped writing and looked at me. 'Only if I was going to arrest you.' She paused for a beat, and then leaned toward me. 'Unless you think I should arrest you.' Her perfectlyshaped eyebrows rose into a question. 'Is there somethingyou want to tell me?'
I rolled my eyes. 'Don't be ridiculous. It was just a matterof bad timing.'
I explained my Good Samaritan act.
I pointed to the red tote bag some investigator was bringing out. 'Those are the hooks. You do know what crochethooks are?' I asked.
She nodded and gave me a withering look. 'Of course I recognize crochet hooks.'
She held up her handbag. It had wooden handles, but the body was made out of a variety of stitches of blue yarn. I had seen something like it in a fancy store at the mall, with a fancy price tag to match. 'Looks just like that Balboabag, doesn't it? I made it,' she said proudly.
'Oh, then you crochet,' I said, thinking our conversationhad turned friendly. But her eyes flared.
'No, I knit.' She pointed out the intricate cable stitches that gave the purse its sculpted shape.
'Knit, crochet, it's all the same, isn't it? Yarn, metal things.' I tried to sound light. She shook her head with a boy-are-you-stupid expression.
'No, they're not,' she said in a clipped tone.
Who knew she was so serious about her yarn work?
She scribbled some notes in her notebook and then asked if I had noticed anyone outside when I'd gone in.
'Oh, you mean like the burglar?'
'What makes you think there was a burglar?' She moved just a little closer to me as if she wanted to hear my every word.
'I've seen enough cop shows to recognize a burglary scene. There was stuff all over the place. Obviously Ellen Sheridan walked in on them and they clobbered her. The fireplace tool was right next to her head.'
Heather's blue eyes locked on me. 'Or that's what somebodywanted us to think.' Something about her look made the hair on the back of my neck stand at attention. Did she think that somebody was me?
After a moment she straightened and asked for my personalinformation. Though she explained that it was just for identification purposes, I thought there was a certain curiosityfactor, too.
She began with age. I knew I wasn't under oath or anything,but I gave her the truth, forty-eight, which compared to her perky mid-thirtysomething probably seemed ancient.If she asked for my weight, I was going to knock off a few pounds, which I doubted even counted as lying. But she skipped right to my marital status, and when she heard 'widowed,' I half expected her to ask if I planned to marry again. Instead she just muttered an automatic 'sorry.' It was in the same tone someone says 'you're welcome' after you say 'thank you.'
Finally she asked for some samples from me, so they could separate my fingerprints and hair from the others at the crime scene. One of the investigators showed up and took my fingerprints and a few strands of hair. Then, to my great relief, Detective Heather let me go.
I was thrilled to get in the greenmobile and head for home.
The phone was ringing when I walked in. I grabbed the cordless and started walking around the house turning on lights.
'Mother.' The word stretched into a sentence of disapproval.'Why didn't you answer your cell phone? Are you watching the news?' It was my older son, Peter's, shorthand for 'turn on the TV.' I checked my cell in my pocket as I headed to the den. It had once again set itself to silent. I flipped on the flat-screen and swallowed hard when I caught the image of myself in the police car. Detective Heather certainly photographed well. I couldn't say the same for me. I looked like I'd felt, rumpled and upset.
'How could you?' he said, and I could just picture him looking heavenward.
How could I what? Did he really think it was part of my afternoon plan to trip over Ellen Sheridan's body and end up on TV so I could embarrass him? Peter's a William Morris TV agent and very concerned about his image. He's been the uptight Brooks Brothers type since he was a kid. He's a little short in the sense of humor department, though you'd think someone with a name like Peter Pink would have one.
He wasn't happy until I apologized--for what, I'm not sure. Then, when he'd heard the whole story, he asked me if I needed a lawyer.
'I hope not,' I said with a shudder.
Call waiting beeped, and I hit the button. It was a frantic Dinah. The detective had let her go almost immediately, and she wanted to make sure I was okay since, when she'd left, I'd been sitting in the cruiser. I assured her I'd made it home unarrested.
Before I could click off, another call came in. It was my younger son, Samuel.
'Ma, are you all right?' There was concern rather than disapproval in his voice.
I was surprised he had even heard about my recent escapade,since he rarely watched television. It turned out Peter had called him.
'I could come over,' he offered. Samuel was totally differentfrom Peter, softer, less judgmental. But, then, he was a musician. Though he was head barista at a coffee place to pay his rent.
'Peter said you were in trouble.'
' 'Trouble' is kind of a strong word. I had kind of a bad day, but it's over now.' Samuel had taken his father's
